On Liminality

I'm endlessly fascinated by liminal spaces. Liminal: adj. of, relating to, or being an intermediate state, phase, or condition. The spaces that aren't here, but they aren't there, either. Alleys, easements, airwells. This building was built here, and this one could only extend to there. We're left with a gap in-between. Nothing left to do but throw a fence over the entrance and let it collect garbage and weeds and the miscellaneous detritus cast off from the more concrete existence of its neighbors.

This is a profoundly human thing. There's no liminality in nature, no hard edges, no gaps, only a globe of gradual transitions. Or you could just as easily say nature is endlessly liminal, always transitioning from one thing to the next, with no clear line between “this” and “that.” But for some reason, we enter the scene and gaps appear. In our architecture and in our selves. No one ever accuses a squirrel of acting un-squirrel-like, yet humans are somehow capable of “inhumane” actions. We have a concept, an idea, of what a human should be, that we measure ourselves against, and our lives unfold in striving to close the gap.

On rare occasions, though, someone takes it upon themselves to care for a liminal space. Tends to it, clears out garbage and plants flowers, adds art, tears down the fence, welcomes us in. Makes the in-between beautiful. We're so preoccupied with getting somewhere; level up, turn the page, get the promotion, upgrade the things, change the season, realize the gains, check the box. Leave one building and enter the next. But destinations are overrated. After all, what is life except for a short liminal space between two deaths?